


i carry it in my heart

by bergamot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drama & Romance, F/M, Missing Scene, Spoilers, almost, season 7, show!Brienne, show!Jaime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 02:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11910918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergamot/pseuds/bergamot
Summary: Brienne and Podrick travel south; Jaime questions Cersei.Two missing scenes from Season 7 between episodes 6 and 7.Obvious warning is obvious: spoilers ahead!





	1. the root of the root

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 7
> 
> I wrote this because the timeline in Season 7 is a mess, I doubt we'll see anything from these two until it's too late for character development, and even Dany can't travel that fast.
> 
> Happy reading :)

*

“Do you suppose her dragons are very large, my lady?” Pod asked loudly on the path behind her.

Brienne gritted her teeth. “I don’t know.”

“Do you think they’re closer in size to sheep or castles?” Brienne scanned the forest along the narrow road and did not answer. Pod continued, “I heard a tale once that the first Targaryen dragons were as large as Harrenhal and the Red Keep. Surely the Dragon Queen’s own dragons aren’t so large as that.”

If Podrick detected his mistress’s ire, he was intent on ignoring it now. He had not shut up these three weeks past, filling their ride south with preposterous questions about the Night King and the army beyond the Wall. About the state of politics in King’s Landing, the Dothraki Hoard landing on their shores. The reports that Casterly Rock had been taken (for which Brienne allowed herself one brief prayer for Jaime). Of a wild rumor that the Mountain still served Queen Cersei and the Hound lived on in the north.

Most absurd was the tale Podrick wove about Daenerys Stormborn and King Jon falling deeply in love and uniting the north and south as one. Brienne had scoffed then; that was a fantasy more appropriate for a bard’s song than the chaos they knew today. Besides, as much as Brienne respected Jon Snow, the man was more likely to brood before the Dragon Queen than to seduce her.

It was dragon glass they needed in the north, anyway. Not a queen.

Brienne thought of Sansa as Podrick nattered on. The Lady of Winterfell grew more distant every day, although Brienne could hardly blame her. The northern lords bit at her heels like hungry dogs, yearning for their chosen king and some semblance of security. Winter was coming, as the Starks liked to say, and the northern lords were as like to get their wish as spring was to bloom on the morrow.

But it was not just politics that worried her. Brienne did not like the way Lord Baelish skulked around Winterfell. He watched Sansa with the sharp eyes of a fox and spoke words that belied his hunger. What he hungered for, exactly, Brienne did not know. At times, it seemed that Littlefinger lusted for Sansa, at others it was the memory of Catelyn Stark that had him slavering after her daughter. Sansa suspected he wanted power, no matter where he found it, and that worried Brienne, too.

It was not safe to leave Sansa alone with such a man. But Brienne hadn’t left her lady alone and defenseless. Sansa had her guards. And her sister.

Arya Stark was a strange creature, far stranger than the girl Brienne had met on the misty hills outside White Harbor. Then, Arya had been curious but wary; she’d clearly fell victim to the trauma of war. But this Arya, the one who marched into Winterfell as if she owned it and appeared and disappeared as quickly as smoke, was someone else entirely. Arya Stark reminded Brienne of Catelyn Stark in her eyes alone, clear and clever. But where Lady Catelyn had been soft and motherly, Arya Stark was as inflexible as forged steel and as dangerous as the dagger she carried at her waist.

Perhaps Brienne should fear the girl and fear leaving Sansa in her care. She smiled slightly to remember the way they’d sparred in the training yard—how quick Arya had been with her slim sword. She’d nearly had Brienne, the stinging memory of Arya’s blade still a fresh hit against Brienne’s plated chest. Arya was the age Brienne had been when she’d finally been allowed to learn to fight. She felt pride that a girl that age could be so nimble with a blade; Brienne almost couldn’t help but trust her.

She would have to, now. She had left Sansa in Arya’s hands, whether the sisters realized it or not, and all Brienne could do was hope that Lady Catelyn’s daughters would prove to be as courageous and fierce as their late mother.

“Are you thinking of Ser Jaime?”

His name cracked across Brienne’s mind like a branch across the trail. She looked back at Podrick and gaped. “Am I what?”

He shrugged. “I saw you smiling, my lady. I thought perhaps you were thinking of him.”

“I most certainly was not.” Brienne rolled her shoulders and tried not to huff in agitation. Her horse danced beneath her, sensing her discomfort. She thought of Jaime daily, but she would never admit that aloud.

Even now she saw him so clearly in her mind’s eye: His gold hand raised in a silent farewell from the battlements of Riverrun. What a proud figure he cut standing there in the half-light as his men took the castle without a drop of blood. Though they fought on opposite sides, she could not help but admire him then—proud and honorable and true.

She had heard of the Battle of the Goldroad. Lord Baelish had been near gleeful with delight as he shared the news with Sansa and the northern lords, though Brienne could not puzzle why it should give him pleasure or any sense of triumph. Jon Snow sought the Dragon Queen’s favor, but her dragons made Brienne sick with wonder and dread. The thought of such creatures raining fire down on Jaime and his men… Brienne pressed her lips together tightly and steadied her mount.

They needed Daenerys’ help in the north, but Brienne could not reconcile losing Jaime to a fate so like the one he had prevented all those years ago. He lived, she knew that, but for how long if the Mad King’s daughter turned her dragons on King’s Landing?

These were the thoughts that Brienne struggled with day in and day out. She tried to banish Jaime from her mind, but he lingered there even so. She could not dismiss his words in the pavilion outside Riverrun, nor the gentleness in his face when he had passed his sword back into her hands.

“It is yours,” he’d said, his voice warm enough to set her heart aflame. “It will always be yours.”

It was true, what Brienne had told Sansa of her time in the Riverlands: Ser Jaime had treated her honorably, allowed her and Podrick to escape the sack of Riverrun with their lives and return north. And with both Stark girls now back at Winterfell, she had fulfilled the oath she’d pledged to him. She owed him nothing; he owed her nothing in return. And yet his sword still hung at her waist, and her heart—her heart…

“It is none of your concern what I was thinking of,” she told Pod forcefully, refusing to finish the thought. “You should be more focused on the trees around you, anyway, and not the sound of your own voice filling them.”

Podrick had the sense to look chagrined, and Brienne almost pitied him. Sometimes she worried she was too hard on him. For all his blunder, he was a good lad full of promise. It was not his fault she was not a knight. She could only do her best.

“It is not our duty to hypothesize about the state of the kingdoms or its occupants. We have a job to do, Podrick, and that job is to get to King’s Landing as quickly as possible, and preferably in one piece.”

It was more than she had said to him for most of the trip, and Pod snuck a half-smile at her as he nodded sharply. “Yes, my lady.”

“Caution,” she admonished, “will get us there faster than gossip.” 

Podrick straightened and looked ahead. Brienne turned ahead as well, relishing the sudden silence. She bid thoughts of Jaime to fly from her head like ravens, and focused on the road instead.

The forest was still, and no birdsong filled the canopy above them. The sky was slate grey. It would snow soon, and the faster they reached the capital, the faster they could return north.

“Did you hear what they’re saying about Ser Jaime?” Podrick suddenly asked.

Brienne’s fingers tightened on her reins and her horse jerked its head in response. She relaxed her hands, refusing to glance back at Pod, despite the urge to turn. “Rumors are often not worth the breath it takes to repeat them,” she replied.

Podrick was silent a moment—a miracle from the gods, normally, but Brienne’s mind itched for his next words.  

He cleared his throat. “Some of the men coming north to Winterfell say that Queen Cersei is with child again.” The trees ate up his words and Brienne found that she could not draw breath. Her stomach clenched painfully. “They say she’s taken up Ser Jaime as her consort, like—like the Targaryens used to do.”

She closed her eyes. 

“He sleeps in her bed and everything.”

“Enough!”

Her voice split the cold air. Podrick coughed awkwardly. “It’s just a rumor, my lady,” he murmured. “I meant no harm.”

She looked down at her hands, feeling nauseous with guilt. She could sense Pod waiting for her response, for her apology. When she spoke, her voice was hard, but kind. “I am sorry, Podrick. We have been riding a good distance now. Perhaps we should find a place to make camp.”

She turned her head enough to see Pod nod his agreement. He dropped back a pace from her, the canter of his horse changing slightly. Brienne felt a hole open somewhere inside her chest, so hollow and never ending that it seemed to consume her.

Rumors are only rumors, she told herself. And what was Jaime to her now, anyway, besides an honorable man whom she respected? Without an oath to bind them and with a battlefield stretched before them, what else could he ever be?

The trees were quiet as her horse plodded on. Oathkeeper shifted on her hip. The forest refused to answer.

*


	2. the bud of the bud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime questions Cersei.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 7
> 
> Ugh, these two. I know, but bear with me.

* 

The dawn rose in soft pinks and yellows through the terrace windows of Cersei’s chambers. The light fell across Cersei’s brow, furrowed in sleep with worry. Jaime wondered if she dreamed of the babe growing in her belly or of the Dragon Queen perched on the eastern coast.

He reached out to nuzzle Cersei’s neck, basking in the feel of her smooth skin and warmth, the pleasure that was touching her so openly after so many years of illicit contact in the alcoves of the Red Keep. Cersei stirred at his attentions and groaned.

“Must you breathe so heavily?” she asked, rubbing an elegant hand against her eyes. 

Jaime laughed. “Does my breath offend you, sister?”

She opened her eyes into slits. “I almost miss sleeping alone.”

Jaime sat back against the pillows and pretended to pout. “You could have had company if you’d asked.”

Cersei sat up, the coverlet falling away to reveal the gauzy linen nightgown she wore to sleep. Jaime had tried to persuade her out of it the night before, but Cersei had been too preoccupied with the unrest in King’s Landing. She was distracted most nights these past weeks, and Jaime tried not to feel cast off. He reached out and slid his hand beneath the covers to stroke the slight swell of her stomach tenderly; Cersei pushed him away.

“I did have company,” she said sourly, pulling on a red silk dressing robe. She tied it tightly around her waist and sauntered over to a table laden with writing supplies and a flagon of wine. “Or did you forget about that fat pig Robert? He breathed heavily in his sleep, too.”

Jaime frowned and fisted his hand in the sheets. Did she think he could forget Robert Baratheon so easily? Or the fact that she had married the man against his wishes and her better judgement. What would a younger Cersei think of her older self now? Would she be proud or horrified at what it’d taken to achieve her goals?

He watched her pour a cup of wine for herself, the Dornish red the same color as her robe. She would be their father’s crowning achievement, could he see her now.

“It’s early to start drinking, is it not?” he asked her.

Cersei took a sip and looked at him with an arch expression. “Am I not allowed to celebrate?”

Jaime felt his face fall. He schooled his features and turned away from her, pushing the covers aside and standing. He stretched, imagining Cersei’s eyes lingering on the lines of his body, but when he turned around, she was studying her wine, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Ah, yes,” he drawled, ignoring his disappointment. “Your guests are soon to arrive.”

By some luck of the gods, Tyrion’s plan had worked. Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow were making their way to King’s Landing even now. Jaime still did not believe Cersei would allow them in her presence without some trouble, and he watched her for signs of mischief or malice. Cersei merely smiled up at him in his scrutiny.

“I must admit,” she said, “I almost considered it another betrayal, going behind my back to meet with our long-lost brother. Had you returned with his head, I might have been amenable to the reunion.” She trailed off, her gaze drifting to the harsh blue sky outside the trellis windows. A cold breeze slid in from Blackwater Bay. “But I see your wisdom in continuing the ruse.”

“Ruse?” he asked, securing his gold hand in slow, awkward movements. It pained him still, but he was used to it now.

“Surely you don’t believe that bastard actually has proof of whatever it is he claims to have seen in beyond the Wall?” Jaime frowned; Tyrion had sent a raven two weeks ago reporting Jon Snow’s mission successful. Cersei smiled indulgently at him. “Do you think I would allow them here without taking necessary precautions, even if I did suspect they brought some unknown danger into our walls?”

“And what precautions are those?” He pulled on his shirt and pants and made his way to her at the table.

“Enough to know we won’t be unduly exposed. Not to the Targaryen girl’s dragons or her hoard of savages.” She looked away from the window at him. “I won’t make the same mistake you did.”

Jaime nodded and grabbed the flagon of wine, pouring his cup near to the brim. He took a seat opposite Cersei.

“I’ve asked Qyburn to prepare the Dragon Pit.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows. “It has not been used in years.”

“No,” mused Cersei. “I imagine it’s full of all manner of rabble. Or was. I did not send him to do the job alone.”

Jaime glanced at the door to the chamber and took a mouthful of wine, wondering if she meant that monstrous thing that used to be Ser Gregor Clegane. Jon Snow need not have travelled to the Wall to find his undead; he suspected Cersei could have provided an example from within her own Kingsguard.

“And what safe measures will Qyburn and his… helpers be taking?”

“Among other things? Ensuring we have enough scorpions to take down her dragons in a single shot,” Cersei said, “and enough troops to halt her Dothraki. I don’t imagine the Stark contingent will bring along any of their own men; Sansa Stark has enough to occupy them up north.”

Jaime lowered his wine cup. “You invited Sansa Stark?” 

“Does she not fancy herself Queen of the North?”

“Her brother Jon rules.”

Cersei scoffed, “A bastard, and a member of the Night’s Watch. He may as well be dead for the use he could be to his people, tied up in his vows as he is. Men may call him King of the North, but his oaths were made to the Watch long ago, and they render him impotent.”

“And what of my oaths?” Jaime asked, thinking of the white cloak that had been stripped of him. “Do we not have worth despite our pledges?”

“Now is not the time to pick a fight, Jaime,” Cersei warned. “Father offered you the opportunity to give up that cloak you still hold so dear, and you turned him down.” She paused and looked him over, then she placed a hand gently upon her stomach. “Do you think you can wear that cloak or any other when our child comes? His father must rule beside me. Last I heard, neither the Kingsguard nor the Night's Watch can hold titles or sire men.”

Jaime thought briefly of the White Book and its empty pages. His phantom hand itched. “If you wish to keep me by your side, Cersei, then do it. I will do everything in my power to protect our family. You know that.”

Cersei sat back in her chair, apparently mollified. She lifted her cup to her lips and took a long draught of wine. When she set it down, her lips were stained the color of blood. She looked striking in the morning light.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway, if the Stark bitch pretends to rule in the north.” She pulled a small scroll from a wooden box on the table and tossed it across to Jaime. “She’s too craven to come.”

Jaime unrolled the scroll and read it over. His good hand trembled and it took all his will to still his fingertips. He stared at the Maester’s tiny writing, the words blurring and coming back into focus again as he reread it. Brienne of Tarth rode south in Sansa’s place.

“Well?” Cersei asked, her face a rigor of triumph.

Jaime masked his shock with another sip of wine; the flavor was acrid on his tongue. The last time he had seen the wench, she was rowing away from him down the Trident with her young squire. Headed north to defend the Starks. He’d waved at her like a simpleton, but he’d longed to join her and leave the dreary negotiations of the Riverlands behind.

He’d kept his promise to her and taken Riverrun without a drop of blood. Even the Blackfish had seemed to have escaped with his life; Jaime’s men had failed to produce the man’s body that night, despite reports that he died fighting.

Jaime couldn’t help hoping reports had reached Brienne that he’d succeeded in his oath to her. Perhaps she might even be proud. In truth, a part of Jaime expected never to see her again; in truth, a part of him hoped he never would. Her words in the Frey camp still haunted him.

“I am honor bound to fight you,” she’d said. Jaime had gulped, knowing full well that he would not—could not—draw a blade against the wench.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” It was all he could reply at the time, his chest tight at the worry in her eyes. How he’d longed to clasp her to him then, if he’d only had both his hands.

“What are you planning, Cersei?”

She shrugged. “I’ve no more Wildfire, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Jaime paused, feeling as if she’d struck him. As if Tommen’s death was a separate event entirely from what had happened at the Sept of Baelor. As if she were not responsible for both tragedies, equally and without remorse. The people of King’s Landing still clamored in fear at what she’d done, the Sept no more than a crater of rubble in the middle of the city.

“That is exactly what concerns me,” Jaime hissed, wondering how many more loved ones would be lost at Cersei’s behest.

Her smile dropped. “The Dragon Queen has her dragons,” she said, “and that bastard Jon Snow. Tyrion has those savages from the east. I have the Golden Army and Euron’s fleet. And you.”

“And Qyburn,” Jaime added, his hand seeking for the little scroll and rolling it absentmindedly between his fingertips.

Cersei tipped her head forward in a nod. “And Qyburn.”

“And the Mountain.”

She pursed her lips. “Yes.”

Jaime watched her carefully. “And all your enemies gathered in the same place all at once.”

Cersei smiled like a snake and raised her cup to him in silent cheers. Jaime clenched his hand around the scroll until it crumpled, Brienne’s name disappearing in his fist.

He would not lose her, too.

*


End file.
